


Brothers Never Beg

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Kidnapped Q, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, Q Has a Cat, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Can I get a 5 + 1 where Mycroft literally has to plead with his youngest brother Q to head the Quartermaster branch of MI6 (because they are all hopelessly lost)? Q resists, still liking his job as freelance hacker. Bonus points for Mummy Holmes.<br/>- Ration306</p><p>Or, five times in which Q refuses to be Quartermaster and the one time he accepts. Bondlock. Pre-00Q.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers Never Beg

**i**

The first time Mycroft offered Quentin Holmes acceptance into the Quartermaster programme, Q was sixteen.

Boothroyd, the then Quartermaster of MI6, wasn't getting any younger, after all. At the request of M, he had begun to select the best of the Q-Branch members to train for the position of Quartermaster. 

It became obvious after the first week that none of the simple-minded minions could ever hope to live up to Boothroyd's image. One had managed to zap his own eyebrows off, and another had a breakdown after accidentally stabbing someone else's hand through with a screwdriver.

Finally, after the third minor explosion in Q-Branch caused by a minion-in-training, M cancelled the programme and simply told Boothroyd, “Don't die.”

Mycroft Holmes, however, was a man for planning ahead. He was not fanciful enough to believe that Boothroyd could live forever. When he caught wind of the failed search for Boothroyd's successor (as Mycroft was all-seeing despite his _minor_ position in the British government at the time) he immediately contacted his youngest brother.

Quentin Holmes was a bloody genius when it came to computers; he always had been. When he was a child, he had wholeheartedly believed that he was part bionic because of how good he was with technology (although Mycroft suspected that was mainly Sherlock's fault, even if he couldn't prove it).

Q, who was earning his PhD in Electrical and Computer Engineering Technology at the time, kindly told his oldest brother to piss off. Q had a nice flat all to himself, a few friends, and was relishing in the freedom that came with not living at home. He didn't want to be tied down by some stupid government job.

Needless to say, Mycroft didn't give up that easily. There were few tactics of manipulation that actually worked when it came to the Holmes brothers, and while Mycroft usually knew the right combination of tricks to give Sherlock a shove in the right direction, he had no such knowledge of his youngest brother Quentin.

Still, it wouldn't stop him from trying. Mycroft tested a variety of approaches to get Q to take the position, and became more annoyed with each rejection.

He tried guilt - _“Honestly Quentin, I don’t ask for much.”_

Q told him to pull the other one.

Pride - _“You'll be serving for Queen and country.”_

In response, Q said, “I think you do that enough for the both of us.”

Vanity - _“They're lost without you. They have no idea what they're doing. You'd be so much better than the lot of them combined.”_

To that, Q snorted. “The answer is no, Mycroft. Back off before I make your mobile explode.”

Undeterred, Mycroft actually stooped to stalking Q at his university – even though he _despised_ legwork – and breaking in to Q's rooms to try to get the younger boy's attention. (He got it, alright, and sported a black eye for a week to prove it.)

Mycroft even left Q little messages, little things like _'They need you!'_ or _'Quentin, stop this nonsense. Join.'_ printed on the bottom of his receipts or written on the side of his styrofoam cup when he bought coffee from a shop (although how Mycroft managed to get his notes there would forever remain a mystery to Q).

The pestering got so bad that Q was driven to temporarily erase himself from the face of the earth – or at least all of the technology he could access, which was pretty much everything – and hide in a resort in Switzerland for six months.

It wasn't until Sherlock actually contacted him to give him notice that Mycroft had given up that Q came home. He received a very large scolding from Mummy for leaving her like that, but Q thought it was worth it to get Mycroft off his back.

And Q eventually did end up making Mycoft's mobile self-destruct, but that was more of a favour for Sherlock than revenge (the pay-back just happened to be an added bonus).

**ii**

Mycroft's second attempt to persuade Q involved a cat.

Neither of them, of course, were quite sure of how the cat entered into the equation, but after three days of constant arguing, Q ended up with a Russian Blue kitten snoozing away on his lap as he worked.

He named her Lyudmila.

When Mycroft realised that not only had he failed to get Q to agree to entering the Quartermaster Programme, but had also lost a kitten in the process, he was livid.

Mycroft spent the better part of the next week trying to steal the small ball of fur back, but ended up getting more scratches than he could count – most of which from Q himself.

Finally, Mycroft – feeling a bit devious and childish – set a trap for the tiny kitten while Q was out. The curious kitten couldn't resist the smell of tuna coming from the box, and soon Mycroft was grinning wolfishly as he held a stolen kitten in his hands. He planned to give the cat back, but only if Quentin agreed to joining MI6.

When Q eventually came home, shaking a small box of cat treats that he had bought, he was met with only silence.

Q's eyes narrowed.

He was going to kill Mycroft. Slowly.

Q couldn't resist calling Sherlock, really. Mycroft had done a similar thing with a puppy named Redbeard that Sherlock was fond of when he was eight, and Sherlock was all too happy to help out.

The two youngest Holmes brothers stormed into Mycroft's Diogenes office, prepared to divide and conquer (Sherlock would take on Mycroft while Q would snatch back his kitten), but instead were met with a sight that had them both rolling on the floor in giggles.

Mycroft was cowering under his desk, nearly quivering in fear, while a fluffy gray ball of fur wreaked havoc on his office. There was a giant scratch over his eyebrow that was dripping blood, and many more abrasions stood out against his pale arms and hands.

Ripped papers were everywhere, and Q was fairly certain that he saw a small pile of excrement on top of a filing cabinet as well. All the furniture in the room had been torn to shreds, and the small kitten was currently gnawing on one of Mycroft's very expensive shoes.

Both members of the room paused at the intrusion, and Mycroft let out a cry of relief when he saw who it was. Lyudmila immediately sprinted to Q, and climbed his clothes to perch on his shoulder.

“Your cat is a menace,” Mycroft hissed, and curled his arms tighter around his legs. Sherlock snorted.

Q reached up to pet his kitten behind her ears, and cooed, “Aw, did you attack Mycroft? You're such a good little girl, aren't you Lyudmila?”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and snapped a photograph of Mycroft for blackmail material. “Lyudmila?” he asked. “As in Pavlichenko? The sniper?"

Q grinned and nodded, while Lyudmila purred happily into his hand.

Trying to piece together some of his dignity, Mycroft rose unsteadily to his feet and cleared his throat. His clothes were ripped in various places, and his tie was hopelessly shredded.

Q and Sherlock laughed loudly as Mycroft flinched at Lyudmila's hiss.

“Mycroft, I will not become your pawn. My answer is no. Ask me again and I'll sic Lyudmila on you.”

“You wouldn't.”

The cat in question was still glaring at the ginger. Q grinned. “I really would. Come along Sherlock, I think you have enough pictures.”

Snapping one more, Sherlock sniggered and followed Q. He paused as they hailed a taxi. “You've trained your pet well, Q. Soon enough she'll live up to her name.”

The next time Sherlock saw his older brother, he made a hissing noise while the ginger's back was turned. The politician jumped a clean foot off the ground.

Sherlock was laughing for days. 

**iii**

It was ten years later when the topic resurfaced.

"You must."

"I don't think I do."

"They need you."

"I really don't care."

"You'll be head of the branch."

"I don't want to be."

Mycroft and Q were arguing in circles. 

This had been going on for days, ever since the explosion at MI6 had killed Boothroyd. Now, the Q-Branch minions were scrambling frantically, unable to function without someone leading them.

Mycroft, who was now practically the British government itself, had (once again) thought that his younger brother Quentin would be the perfect man for the job, despite him being only 26.

Mycroft was right of course, but he had forgotten to add in the one factor that mattered: Q just didn't _want_ to.

The younger boy was now well known in the technology world as the best hacker that ever was. He could enter and exit a system without setting off any alarms, and retrieve the information in record time.

Now, all three of the Holmes brothers had been called home by Mummy for their monthly dinner, and Mycroft had Q trapped at the dinner table (because, as Mummy put it, _"No son of mine will be leaving this table until he has finished his food.")_

Q was frantically shovelling the meal down his throat while Mycroft pounded him with questions, and Sherlock sat back in his chair, watching in amusement. They all had a sneaking suspicion that Mummy was enjoying the argument at well.

"You'll be payed handsomely," Mycroft bargained.

"I have no money troubles," Q said around a mouthful of roast, and then mumbled his apologies when Mummy fixed him with a look.

"I'll freeze your accounts," Mycroft shot back.

"Mycroft!" Mummy snapped, and Sherlock chortled as Mycroft muttered sorry.

Mycroft had had a vision ever since he got his first taste of politics when he was sixteen. Sherlock was only nine at the time, and Q six, but that didn't stop Mycroft from plotting out his plan. Together, the Holmes brothers would rule the nation - their combined intelligence was more than enough to rule the world, but they would start small.

Sherlock, of course, said no. Not because he didn't want to rule the world, but because saying yes would please Mycroft (and heaven forbid that ever happen).

Q, on the other hand, never wanted the responsibility of being a leader. He preferred doing things by himself, not in a group.

“I'd like to see you try,” Q hissed, his eyes narrowing at his oldest brother as if challenging him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You should know better than to challenge Q to a technological war, Mycroft. He'll run circles around you."

Mycroft ignored him. "Quentin, do you know how bad things are at MI6 right now?"

"Once again, I don't care."

"Have you seen their systems lately?"

"Of course I have, Mycroft. I've been in and out of that shoddy system more times than I can count. But it doesn't mean that I want to spend my time fixing it."

Mycroft's smile turned feral. He took his phone out of his pocket and waved it at Q, showing a flashing _recording_ sign.

"Now that you've admitted to hacking into a secure government system," he said, "join MI6 or I'll arrest you for treason."

Q cried out in anger while Mummy shouted, "Mycroft!" 

Sherlock was nearly keeling over in laughter at the new turn of events. "Now Mickey, what has Mummy told you about making arrests at the dinner table?"

Ignoring Sherlock, Q leapt to his feet. "I'll delete it," he hissed. "There wont be a trace of it left for you to find when I'm through with it."

"It's being burned to a CD as we speak," Mycroft practically crowed.

Q literally leapt over the table and tackled his eldest brother to the floor, ignoring his mother's shouts for the both of them to stop and _behave like gentlemen._

"Give it to me," Q hissed, and scrambled for the phone that had been knocked away in the tumble. Mycroft came to his senses and knocked Q's legs out from under him, causing the boy to land on his face with a thud.

Sherlock had also fallen to the floor, beset with uncharacteristic giggles. 

Both Q and Mycroft raced on hands and knees to reach the small phone, only to have it scooped up by none other than Mummy herself. Her legendary glare was enough to freeze hell, and it was now aimed at her sons. They both flinched and rose to their feet, heads lowered and faces repentant. 

"Boys," Mummy said tensely, "all I wanted was a nice, _peaceful_ dinner with my three sons. Because you both can't seem to be capable of even that, there is now a broken chair and food scattered all over my dining room."

Both boys looked at the dining room floor, and sure enough, the chair Mycroft had been tackled from was lying in shambles and little bits of roast littered the carpet. Sherlock was flat on his back, looking entirely too smug for his own good. It wasn't often that Mummy's golden child got in trouble, after all.

"Mycroft, you will apologise to your brother immediately and get rid of that CD. Q, you are going to pick up the mess you made and purchase me a new chair." She paused. "And Sherlock, kindly pick yourself up from the floor, the shade of the carpet doesn't become you.” She aimed him a stern gaze, “You will behave as well, or I'll call that doctor of yours to keep you in line."

Sherlock scowled as Q and Mycroft sniggered, but they were both quieted with another _look_ from Mummy. Sherlock clutched at his aching stomach as he rose to his feet, and wiped his eyes.

Mummy reluctantly passed Mycroft back his phone, but she warned him, "Mycroft Holmes, Quentin has expressed his feelings on working for MI6. If I find out that you have not dropped the subject with him, you and I are going to have a long chat. Understand?"

Mycroft's face flushed, but he still mumbled, "Yes, Mum."

"Speak up, dear, you know I'm hard of hearing." She wasn't, really, but the opportunity or tease her son couldn't be passed up.

Mycroft glared at his brothers for laughing, and said more clearly, "Yes, Mum, I understand."

"Good," Mummy nodded.

**iv**

It took Mycroft only three days to breach the topic again, which was a lot longer than Q had expected the politician to last.

He wasn't, however, expecting to have a sack thrown over his head and be carted off in a van on his way home. 

Q immediately began to struggle against the handcuffs they were forcing his wrists into, and heard a curse as he managed to hit one of his captors in the face. He barely had time to register the sharp pinprick in his arm before his mind became fuzzy. His movements of resistance were now sloppy and sluggish, and finally he lost consciousness.

When he came to, the soiled sack was still covering his head, and his neck ached from being bent for so long. His hands were still cuffed in front of him. A groan slipped past his lips, and immediately the sack was yanked from his head.

The brightness nearly blinded him, and Q squinted until his eyes adjusted. When they finally did, Q snarled.

Mycroft gazed coolly at him from across the table. His brows raised fractionally at his brother's reaction.

“Mycroft, what the bloody _hell_ do you think you're doing?” Q seethed.

Mycroft didn't flinch at his brother's tone. “Quentin, I have tried to be reasonable with you, but-”

“Reasonable?” Q deadpanned, “You just kidnapped me!”

“Minor detail,” Mycroft waved it off. He began to say something else, but Q interrupted him. 

“You can't just snatch people up off the streets, you _cock. _”__

Mycroft's voice seemed bored, “Language, brother dear.”

Q took a calming breath. “ _Why,_ ” he stressed, “did you deem it necessary to abduct me and place me in an interrogation room at MI6?”

Mycroft gave a Q a look that was often on Sherlock's face; the condescending tilt of the head and set of the lips that oozed _obvious_. “You weren't answering your phone.”

Q was nearly certain his eye twitched.

“Now that you're here, perh-”

“Tell me, Mycroft, does Mother know I'm here?”

Mycroft smirked, “Of course not. I may have given her the impression that you're on vacation in the Bahamas, which is why you won't be able to check in with her. She won't come looking for you.”

“Sherlo-” Q began.

“Is busy with a case in Dartmoor. He will also not be coming to your aid.”

Q glared at his brother as the other man rose to his feet, adjusting his suit marginally. He strode to the door.

“So you're just going to keep me here until I agree to your terms?” Q asked plainly, not shocked at all by his brother's audacity.

Mycroft turned and gave Q an innocent smile, “You should have answered your phone.” With that, he walked out of the room. The door locked with a ominous _click_.

Q tilted his head back in a sigh, and caught the sight of a security camera in the corner of the room. He flipped it off.

The goons that had stuffed him into a van had also taken his mobile and watch – even the lock picking set that was carefully hidden in his shoe was stolen as well.

Q got up and began to pace around the small room, his mind working furiously to think of a way out of his prison cell.

Once again, his eyes flickered to the camera, and Q pursed his lips.

 _Well,_ he thought, _it's worth a shot._

Q strode up to the small camera and broke it off of the wall. The thing was wireless, thankfully.

Q knew he had to work quickly before someone was alerted of what he had done. Well, shame on them for thinking that Q was only good with computers. Q was an expert with any type of technology, really. He was a programmer as well as an engineer. 

With nimble fingers, he disassembled the camera until it lay in pieces on the table. The fact that his wrists couldn't move very far apart only slowed him down a little.

 _Twenty seconds,_ a small voice in his head supplied.

Q reassembled the small technology in record time, and when an agent burst through the door, Q calmly lifted the makeshift taser and jabbed it against him.

The agent's body seized, and he dropped to the floor, not unconscious, but definitely not a threat. Q quickly stepped over the man's body and started down the hallway, searching for a computer.

He was only met with two other people as he ran around the corridors of MI6; one of which was a post delivery man who was very easy to knock out, and the other was his brother himself.

Mycroft's eyes widened. “Qui-” he began, but Q thrust the taser into his brother's soft stomach before he could finish.

Q watched in satisfaction as the ginger fell to the floor, convulsing. He reached into Mycroft's pockets and found the keys to his cuffs. “Ah, thank you, brother dear.”

Despite the time crunch, Q couldn't help but to pause and cuff Mycroft to a vending machine. It was poetic, really. He would have left the man some notes if he had any.

With his hands now free, Q once again set down the hallway until he finally found what he was looking for: an open office.

Q let out a cry of triumph and slipped inside, locking the door behind him. The computer was password protected, but it only took Q about eight seconds to get past it.

Unlike Sherlock, who would deduce a someone's pass-code from his knowledge and surroundings, Q found it easier to simply hack it.

From there, it really was a piece of cake.

All of the locks in the building were controlled electronically – it was almost _too_ easy – and all Q had to do was create himself a path from here to the exit. He wanted to get as far away as he could without setting off any alarms.

Still, he couldn't resist leaving a tiny present for his brother.

By the time Mycroft came to his senses and was released from the handcuffs, Q was long gone.

Mycroft was pacing around, nursing his headache and sore muscles. It had taken forever for a techie to undo what Quentin had done in under five minutes to their system, and it was nearly midnight when MI6 was up and running again.

A minion from Q-Branch hurried into his office. “Sir,” she said, “you might want to come see this.”

Annoyed, he followed her back to her department, only to stop short at the entrance. There, on every monitor in Q-Branch, the words _'No means **no** , Mycroft.'_ flashed back at him.

The boffins of Q-Branch waited with baited breath for the explosion of anger. While Mycroft wasn't technically an official member of MI6, he still often visited to make sure everything was under control. Many of the members of MI6 were afraid of Mycroft Holmes – as they should be – after he openly yelled at M for botching a delicate mission. While they weren't quite sure who he was or what clearance he had, they knew for certain that he was not a man to trifled with.

But now, the members of Q-Branch watched in fascination as the ginger haired man only chuckled.

**v**

This time, it was only a mere 24 hours until Mycroft showed back up to pester Q again.

The man was sitting patiently in the dark at Q's flat, drinking a cup of Q's Earl Grey.

Q, of course, had been alerted the moment Mycroft stepped through his door (as if Q would live anywhere without the very best security – most of which he had designed himself).

With a sigh, Q opened the door and walked into his flat. He didn't even acknowledge his older brother, instead opting to make himself some tea as well.

Lyudmila had hidden somewhere, deciding that she's rather sit this discussion out – much to Mycroft's relief.

Mycroft waited patiently, sipping at his cuppa, until Q finally sat down across from him.

Q took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What,” he asked quietly, “do I have to do for you to leave me alone?”

“Accept the job offer,” Mycroft answered plainly.

“Aren't there rules against pulling strings to get a sibling a job?”

“Rules can be bent, Quentin. You, of all people, should know that.” Mycroft added, “But you've already passed the test, so there's no need for me to pull strings.”

Q froze. He slowly raised his head to glare at his older brother, despite only being able to see a blurry outline. His voice was icy, “What test?”

“M wanted to see that you were proficient enough with technology to be Quartermaster. Your escape was your test.” Mycroft said this as if it were obvious. “Keep up, brother. You don't honestly think that MI6 would leave a prisoner in an interrogation room without them tethered to something, do you?”

“You kidnapped me to show me off to your boss?”

He shouldn't have been surprised. Really.

Mycroft gave Q a scathing look, “M is hardly my boss, Quentin. And think of yesterday's escapades as more of an... interview.” He flashed his younger brother a small smile.

Q was not amused. He slipped his glasses back on and took a deep breath. “I hate you,” he said plainly. There was no emotion in his words; he spoke as if he were talking about the weather.

Mycroft nodded as if he expected this. “Yes, as does Sherlock. But caring is not an advantage, Quentin, as I've told you before.”

There was a pregnant pause between the two, and the pair sipped at their tea.

Q's voice was placated, “Is it really too much trouble to call me Q, and not Quentin? You know I abhor that name.”

Mycroft glanced up at his youngest brother, but the boy was staring into his cup. A certain calmness laid over them, as if they were both just tired of fighting. 

“I'll call you Q when you've earned the title.” He jabbed, but there was little bite to it. Q gave a small smile.

“Quent-” Mycroft began, but was interrupted by his phone chiming. He fished it out of his pocket, fully prepared to snap at whoever interrupted him.

> _16:07 UTC_  
>  • URGENT • URGENT • URGENT •  
>  potential level 5 security breach  
>  access card belonging to holmes, mycroft  
>  in use at baskerville military base as of 15:44  
>  security authorisation needed 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation, letting out a frustrated huff. _What on earth is he doing now?_

Q glanced up curiously, but immediately knew by the look on Mycroft's face that it had to do with Sherlock. No one else could make Mycroft's face really pinch up in the way that Sherlock could.

Mycroft texted back,

> _What are you  
>  doing?  
>  M_

“Should I ask?” Q said, amused.

“Your brother,” Mycroft said (because Sherlock was always _Q's_ brother when he was annoying), “is using my identification to break into a secure government facility.”

Q chuckled, “Business as usual, then.”

Mycroft scowled at his little brother, who smiled into his tea. When no response came from Sherlock, Mycroft sighed and typed again.

> _What’s going on  
>  Sherlock?  
>  M_

“Is it something I need to fix, then?” Q asked.

Mycroft glowered at his phone, as if it was the problem. “No. Let him get out of this one by himself. If we're lucky they'll catch him and experiment on him.”

“Maybe they'll even find out what's wrong with him.”

“One could only hope.”

Both brothers laughed at that, and finished their drinks. Mycroft set his cup back onto the coffee table and rested his chin in his hand.

“Quentin,” he began. His voice was cautious as to not set his brother off again. “You know of my hope for you to become Quartermaster.” He saw Q's immediate look of protest, and sped up, “And I know that you don't wish to work for MI6 at all. This is the last time I will ask it, I swear. But please-” Q started at the word, and a small blush dusted over Mycroft's cheeks. “consider joining. You don't even have to become Quartermaster right away. Just make sure that the branch doesn't shoot itself in the foot.”

Q could practically see Mycroft swallow his pride.

“I'm nearly begging here, Quentin.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Just consider it – please.”

They were both silent for a few beats, before Q quietly said, “I'm sorry, Mycroft.”

The eldest Holmes brother sighed, and hauled himself to his feet. “Very well,” he said. “I will no longer continue to bother you.”

Q leaned down to scoop up Mycroft's umbrella, and handed it to him. The ginger accepted it with a nod, and strode out the door.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” Q called, but doubted he was heard.

**+1**

Mycroft Holmes was a man of his word.

If he said that he was going to drop a subject, then so help him god, he was going to _drop. the. subject._

So, when _another_ bag was placed over Q's head and he was stuffed into the boot of a car, he knew immediately that this kidnapping was most certainly _not_ Mycroft's doing.

Well, that and the fact that when he struggled – he _really_ ought to invest in some self-defence classes – his captors gave him a good solid knock to the head.

Despite the situation he was in, the first thought in Q's head was, _'Oh, god, don't tell me this is a pillowcase over my head. It is, isn't it? Bloody amateurs – I can still see though the damn thing.'_

Nylon rope was wrapped around his wrists and ankles, so tightly that his circulation was nearly cut off.

His captors roughed him up a bit – but it was really nothing compared to what Sherlock would do to him when they were younger. A hard kick to his ribs left Q gritting his teeth in pain.

“Stop,” a voice called. “We were told to deliver him unharmed. Just put him in the trunk and let's go.” The person in charge was obviously American, judging by their accent.

Q felt himself being lifted from the ground and stuffed into the boot of a car. He squirmed, wondering how the hell this had happened _again._

“Fuck, just knock him out, would you?” someone said. “I don't want to listen to him the whole ride there.”

Q felt the pillow slip being ripped from his head, and a cloth was shoved against his nose and mouth. A sickly sweet odour filled his nose.

 _'Chloroform,'_ Q's foggy mind supplied, _'how cliché.'_

His eyes fluttered, and he felt his brain slowly shut down. His limbs were suddenly heavy. 

_'No, no, no,'_ Q chanted silently, and unsuccessfully tried to hold his breath.

Q went limp, his body giving out.

“Don't use too much of that shit,” the boss commanded, and the rag was removed. The man said something else, but Q's hearing was already slipping away.

Q's swimming vision could make out the hood being slammed closed, and then he was out.

When Q's woke up, he immediately had to fight the wave of nausea that hit him. His head was still swimming, and he tried to keep his stomach contents down.

His eyelids seemed ten times heavier than they normally were; it took nearly all of his concentration to open them.

 _Perfect, they've taken my glasses as well._ Q squinted and glanced around.

From what he could make out – as Q was practically blind without his glasses – he was in a barn. An abandoned one, based off the lack of noise. Even his captors were gone, probably holed up in a nearby house.

He was sitting in a pile of hay, right in the centre. His arms were tightly tethered behind him to a wooden pillar with rope. He immediately began to work at the knots, trying to recall everything that Sherlock had taught him about how to get out of bonds.

Q leaned forward to get a better look at his surroundings, ignoring the sharp pain that shot up his arms. The barn door was a good 12 metres in front of him, and there was a loft around the edges of the building. There was nothing close enough to grab and help him out of his binds.

He figured that there was no use calling for help, so he quietly sat and rubbed his wrists and fingers raw trying to get his wrists free.

Absently, Q wondered how long had he been asleep. He had been attacked early during the morning, and if the shadows were anything to go on, it was sometime around noon.

Most certainly long enough for Mycroft to notice that he had disappeared – that man had nearly as many taps into the CCTV as Q did.

Q knew that Mycroft would have already sent someone for him; if the man was good for anything, it was his efficiency in getting things done. Hell, Sherlock would probably join in the search as well, given that the kidnapping was interesting enough to be worth his time.

That left Q with the task of figuring out who exactly had kidnapped him. He was no Sherlock – or even Mycroft – with his deductions, but growing up with two brothers who noticed _everything_ did rub off on him somewhat. 

His kidnappers were obviously working under the orders of someone else, someone who wanted him mostly unharmed. His wrists had been tied rather viciously, so there was a good chance that he hadn't been taken for his coding skills. In the past, when he was abducted for a programming job, his captors always made sure that his hands were kept in pristine condition – no damaging the merchandise and all that.

 _They're also amateurs,_ Q thought as he slipped from his binds. _Not even one person in here to guard me? Idiots._ He reached down to undo the rope from his ankles as well, gently rolling his still shoulders as he moved.

Q rose unsteadily to his feet, still slightly nauseous from the drug. His head and ribs ached, but other than that, he was unscathed.

The sound of footsteps from outside made Q's head snap up. He squinted.

_I can't see a bloody thing._

Q ghosted over to the ladder leading to the loft, using every tip that Sherlock had given him about sneaking around. 

The footsteps had paused, and for a few minutes Q strained to hear anything other than his own breathing. He almost began to second guess himself, but then he heard it – the gentle _crunch_ of gravel as someone moved over it.

Q climbed up the old ladder, eyes locked on the door and ears trained on the nearly silent crackle of footsteps. Q thanked his lucky stars that the wooden ladder didn't creak once – a feat only accomplished because of his small frame.

Once safely in the loft, Q stealthily manoeuvred himself to where he could see the barn door, but anyone who entered would be unable to see him.

Now in place, he waited.

* * *

James Bond was having nothing but shit days recently.

It had started with a botched mission in Mexico, and ended with three knife wounds, one gunshot wound, and another addition to the impressive collection of shrapnel in his body.

He had returned to London, hoping to get a full night's sleep and down his weight in scotch – although maybe not in that order. But MI6 had other ideas, and he was called into M's office for a new mission right away.

This one was of _utmost importance._ Bond gave a grim smile. He could still remember the ginger's posh voice as the man gave him his new mission. Bond thought that it was interesting that M was not briefing him, and vowed to look more into it later. 

The cold politician had seemed almost... _worried._ He had made it clear to Bond that the operation was to be executed _perfectly_ , and if anything - _anything_ \- were to happen to the abducted civilian, it would be Bond's head. 

Bond rolled his eyes as he slowly walked towards the barn. Politicians were entirely too over dramatic. He doubted this one had any power at all.

Bond hoped that he was correct in assuming that the civilian would be in the barn – a barn was a good place to keep a hostage, right? 

He paused for a few minutes and listened for any signs of movement. Other than the Americans drinking noisily in the house next door, the place seemed deserted.

But, Bond didn't make it this far as agent without trusting his instincts, so he continued to creep forward. He hoped that this hostage wasn't going to be as whiny as the last one – he didn't think he could handle another round of screaming and blubbering.

Finally, he made it to the barn doors. He had long since taken out his ear piece – silence was golden, after all. Bond glanced around to double check that he had remained unseen, and then slowly pushed open the large door.

The first thing Bond noticed was the silence. The large barn seemed to block out the sound of the boisterous Americans. 

_'Well,'_ Bond thought, _'hopefully it works the other way around. It should block out any protests the civilian might ha-'_

Bond's attention was drawn away from his thoughts by a movement in the corner of his vision. Before he could register what was happening, Bond was attacked from above by a blur of brown hair and pale skin and – oh, god, is that a cardigan?

 _“Oof!”_ Bond and his attacker hit the ground – albeit the smaller of the two was cushioned by landing on top of the larger. Bond could feel his stitches rip open upon impact, and gritted his teeth.

Before the smaller man – and Bond knew it was a man based off of the masculine (and quite boney) frame that was lying on top of him - could make a move, Bond was on his feet with his gun drawn and aimed.

The smaller man was peculiar, Bond noted. His dark brown hair was a wild mess, with small bits of straw in it. He looked more scrawny than a child, and Bond was sure that if the brown haired boy hadn't have had gravity on his side, there was no way that he would have ever brought Bond down.

And _what_ was he wearing? He dressed like an old man, with a puke colored cardigan and... _chequered trousers?_

_'And look, he even has a tie all neat and tucked in.'_

Well, it was partially tucked. His clothes were slightly dishevelled, and Bond couldn't miss the rope marks of his wrists.

 _So_ this _was the man he had to retrieve._ Bond wondered what was so special about the man to warrant a rescue from a Double-O.

Still, Bond kept his gun steadily aimed until he was sure that his man wouldn't try to harm him – again.

The brown-haired boy, finally recovered from the shock of the fall, glanced up to see a Walther PPK pointed at his face, and huffed. His eyes were a deep emerald, and they were squinting. Bond guessed that he normally wore glasses (which would complete his senior citizen look).

Well, that was definitely not the reaction that Bond was going for. “Who are you?” he commanded. He figured he might as well get some bloody answers out of _somebody._

The boy ignored his question. “Your gun, it's very inefficient. Anyone can just pick it up and use it against you.” He began to speak more quickly, and Bond could see fear seeping into his expression. “I could fix that for you, you know, make it to where no one but you could fire it – perhaps it could have your palm-print coded into the grip. Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement, I'd say.” His green eyes darted around, looking for an escape but finding none. “I- I could make it for you - provided you don't kill me.”

Bond was stunned. He couldn't tell if the man was just bluffing to save his life, or if he really was some technological genius. “You could make that for me?” Bond asked, dubious.

“I- yes. Of course,” he paused, thinking for a second. “I'm Q. And, um, please don't shoot me. I think my brother would be very put out.” Well, one of them anyways.

 _Who the hell names their kid 'Q?'_ Bond thought.

Bond paused. “Brother?” He held up his hand to a few inches above his head, “About this tall, ginger, looks like he had a stick up his arse?”

The boy – Q, Bond mentally corrected – seemed relieved. “Ah, yes, that would be him. You're MI6, then.” Q slowly rose to his feet, still slightly cautious but no longer frightened.

Bond nodded, thinking that this entire mission was incredibly strange.

“Right then. I apologise for, erm, landing on you.”

Still feeling as if he was in some surreal dream, Bond glanced up at the loft. It was a fairly good height above the ground. “That was a pretty impressive jump,” Bond complimented, trying to ease the tension a bit. “I didn't even see you coming.”

A blush rose to Q's cheeks. “Oh. I, um, I fell.”

The pair stared at each other for a few seconds, before both bursting into laughter at the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

They both stopped when they heard the sounds of men approaching. 

_'Damn,'_ Bond thought, _'I guess the barn isn't as soundproof as I thought.'_

Q stepped back. “You should probably kill them. Or something.” He held his arms behind his back, looking as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. “And I never got your name.”

Bond nodded at Q's first statement. “I will. But when I'm done, you're going to show me how you'd alter my gun. I only let a very small amount of people handle my Walther.” He cocked his gun, “And the name's Bond. James Bond.”

Q nodded eagerly, and his smile didn't falter as the barn door was kicked open. Bond spring into action.

“You know,” Bond called conversationally from where he had one man in a choke-hold, “when this is all over, you should come back to MI6. I'm sure that TSS would have a bunch of gizmos that you could improve. It might even be fun.”

Q quickly contemplated the thought. He had assumed that if he took his brother's offer, he'd be living a boring, static life. But if he had an agent like Bond to help him through the rough days...

“I think I might, Mr. Bond. I think I just might,” Q murmured, watching with hungry eyes as one man took down the whole lot of his kidnappers with ease.

And so Quentin Holmes became Q, and if his favourite Double-O just happened to have a spectacular arse – well, that was nobody's business but his own.

* * *

In the privacy of her own home, Mummy Holmes smirked to herself.

Quentin had _finally_ taken the position of Quartermaster – and no one had to know about the large sum of money transferred from her account to one in the States. Her boy only needed a little push, that's all.

And even better, no one could prove that it came from her.

Now, if she could just get her middle child to do something about that handsome flatmate of his...

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if anyone wants to take a fill and turn it into a fully-fleshed story, just send me a head's up and I'll put a link to your story at the end of the chapter :)
> 
> Leave a prompt in the comments if you want more. Each fill will be around 5,000 words.


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